


Long in the Baking, Never Quite Done

by p1013



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Shot, Dom/sub Undertones, Food Porn, Harry Potter Cooks, M/M, POV Harry Potter, Taste, TasteofSmut 2020, Touch, both literal and figurative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:53:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24082387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/p1013/pseuds/p1013
Summary: "Hi, Luna." Harry toasts her with his glass. "That looks lovely."She curtseys back. "Thank you, Harry. It's to keep the wrackspurts away. How've you been?""Good. I brought cakes.""Wonderful. I'm assuming Ginny sent you in here?"He smiles. "She did.""Warned you about Draco?""Yes." He takes another drink. "Though I don't know why she felt the need. We've been civil for years.""Does she know you fancy him?"Harry chokes.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Luna Lovegood/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 54
Kudos: 396
Collections: Taste of Smut Fest





	Long in the Baking, Never Quite Done

From a young age, Harry's been fascinated by the act of cooking. There's something alchemical about it, the ability to take disparate ingredients and turn them into a whole. Maybe he learned to love it because, otherwise, being forced to make the Dursleys' meals for most of his childhood would have made him hate food. And there are times when he does, honestly. He can't stand roasts or any of the other meals that Petunia made him make on rotation. Even the smell of them is enough to turn his stomach. But he's got a collection of French cookbooks and tomes on baking, and he finds that everything else is fascinating and fun. His grown-up self loves the task, loves mincing and dicing, loves simmering and baking, and the meals he cooks show it. He's honestly never eaten so well in his life.

There's a science to it that he appreciates. It's not like potions where a minor mismeasurement can literally kill you. Adding an extra dash of thyme won't send anyone to St. Mungo's, though there was one time he mixed up the sugar and the salt, and his bolognaise had to go straight into the bin. Cooking is flexible, intuitive. Harry can lean in over a bubbling pot, take a deep whiff of whatever is cooking, drag a spoon over his tongue for a taste, and adjust it to suit his appetite, all without Snape sneering or Slughorn fawning around him.

It lets him be creative, too, something that he didn't have much chance at while in school. Too much of his childhood was spent trying to stay alive or trying to kill someone. Art, or anything approaching it, wasn't part of growing up. Now, as an adult, Harry finds that it eases something in his chest, the simple act of creation and caring for others through good food.

The kitchen at Grimmauld Place is better than the one at 4 Privet Drive, always adjusting and changing to suit his needs. Kreacher even makes a passable sous chef, though he grumbles whenever Harry comes into the kitchen and starts pulling ingredients from the cabinets. Today, he's making cakes. There's a big get-together planned at Luna and Ginny's, and he's been tapped for dessert. Bring biscuits _one time_ , and you're stuck for life when your friends want homemade sweets.

He's spent the week looking through his cook books, hoping for something different enough without being too showy, and he's settled on two recipes: a chocolate cake with salted caramel buttercream, and a lemon blueberry cake.

The kitchen counters extend as he fills them with ingredients. Flour, butter, oil, eggs, milk, cocoa powder, sugar. The list goes on and on, until he's amassed a plethora of baking goods. Grinning at the materials before him, he sets to work.

An hour later, he's got the cakes in the oven, a cup of tea in his hands, and a bit of buttercream in a bowl next to him. He lazily dips a finger in and tastes it, humming in pleasure at the smooth, creamy flavor. He'll have to split the batch in two for the different cakes, and he still needs to get the caramel started, but he keeps taking small tastes, smiling around his sticky finger.

The kitchen fills with the smell of warm chocolate and lemon, butter and caramelizing sugar. He stirs and mixes, flavors and tastes, until the cakes come out of the oven and cool, and he can get to finishing the buttercreams and decorating.

In the end, he has two four-tier cakes: one carefully covered in salted caramel buttercream with a chocolate drizzle around the edge and shards of tempered chocolate resting on the top, the other almost sparse in comparison, with lemon buttercream sparsely applied to the top and in each layer, hiding the purpling blueberries within.

Apparating with cakes is a bit tricky, but between his Auror training and the stasis charms he puts around both desserts, he makes it safely to Ginny and Luna's place in Oxfordshire. Their house is Tudor-style, with white plaster and dark wooden beams criss-crossing the front. The garden is overflowing with lavender and white hydrangeas and hyacinths, and bees hum excitedly as he walks past them, going around the side of the house into the wide open back garden.

There's a series of picnic tables laid out across the lawn, covered in flapping white tablecloths with brightly colored bunting hanging from the ends. Bubbles in fantastic shapes—dragons, unicorns, nifflers—float through the air, and Harry laughs as one of the unicorns charges a dragon, then disappears is a multi-hued pop.

"Harry!" Ginny hurries over from where she's setting a plate of sandwiches on a table partially covered with food. "You're early."

"Not by much." He hands her a cake, and they lean in for a quick, one-armed hug. "And I figured if I stayed home with these much longer, I'd eat them myself."

"They look amazing. Luna's inside, if you want to go say hello. Let me take that." He passes her the chocolate cake, and she carries them deftly to the food table, Harry trailing after. "The others should be arriving shortly."

"Who all is coming?" he asks, still uncertain about the guest list. "Ron and Hermione didn't know who else would be here."

"Oh, it's a handful of people."

Harry frowns. "You're dodging the question. Why are you dodging the question?"

Her pale Weasley skin turns a mottled red as she blushes. "I'm doing no such thing."

"Ginevra." He nearly puts his hands on his hips. "I interrogate people professionally, and we dated for nearly four years. Maybe don't try to lie to me."

"Fine." She laughs, though it's a bit forced. "It's mainly Gryffindors—Neville, Dean, Seamus, that lot—but Luna asked that her cousin be invited, too."

"Her cousin."

"Yes."

"You mean Malfoy."

"I mean _Draco_ , her _cousin_."

Harry sighs. "You really love her, don't you?"

"Impossible not to, really." Her eyes go soft for a moment before refocusing on Harry. "And she wanted him here."

"That's fine."

Ginny frowns. "Is it, really?"

"Yes."

"As long as you're on your best behavior, then it's fine." She busses a kiss on his cheek when he starts to protest. "Now, go inside and let Luna know you're here."

Frowning Harry turns back to the house as Ginny sets the cakes onto the table. The back door, a bright blue with windows at the top, opens into a sunroom with more tables set up for the party. There's a large bowl of what looks like Pimm's and lemonade, and he gets himself a glass before wandering into the house.

Luna is in the front room, humming to herself quietly as she runs her wand over the surfaces in the room. Harry thinks she's cleaning at first, but when he draws closer, he sees she's spelling small white flowers to grow in a tangled garland, leaving it in loops of green and white as she goes.

"Hi, Luna." He toasts her with his glass. "That looks lovely."

She curtseys back. "Thank you, Harry. It's to keep the wrackspurts away. How've you been?"

"Good. I brought cakes."

"Wonderful. I'm assuming Ginny sent you in here?"

He smiles. "She did."

"Warned you about Draco?"

"Yes." He takes another drink. "Though I don't know why she felt the need. We've been civil for years."

"Does she know you fancy him?"

Harry chokes.

"Oh, was I not supposed to know you fancy him?"

"I don't…" He sputters. "I don't fancy Malfoy."

"Really?" Luna's wand droops, her bright face darkened by a frown. "I could have sworn you told me you did."

"I'm certain I did no such thing."

"There was an awful lot of alcohol involved." She starts moving her wand again, the small white flowers flowing out again. "It was in that back hallway at the Three Broomsticks, and you leaned in and said 'Luna. Draco Malfoy has a lovely arse, don't you think?' and I didn't quite know how to respond since I'm related to him, but then you went on for a good, oh, five minutes, I think, about how lovely he was, and how his hair caught the light, and—"

"I remember!" Harry's voice breaks, but it does manage to stop Luna from saying anything else. "Let's just keep it between the two of us, please?"

"Well, of course. I wouldn't dream of telling someone else. Very bad karma to tell secrets."

"Wonderful. Wonderful." He takes another drink.

"You'd like to leave, wouldn't you?"

"Very much so."

Luna laughs, then throws a loop of flowers over his shoulders. They break off from the rest of the garland and twine their way into his hair, pulling the curling locks up so that it's all woven together in a delicate, but ornate, flower and braid crown. "Now you can go."

"Bye, Luna."

"Bye, Harry! I'll let Draco know where you are when he arrives."

"Thank you!" he says, fairly certain he doesn't mean it.

Ron and Hermione show up five minutes later, and all three of them settle at one of the picnic tables, sweating drinks in hand. The day is warm, summer finally bursting forth from spring with heat and sun, and Harry finds himself drinking the Pimm's faster than he normally would. He blames the heat. It certainly has nothing to do with the low level anxiety he feels whenever another person comes around the side of the house or through the back door, none of them with a shock of white-blond hair, elegant hands, or a perpetual smirk.

By the time the sun is setting, everyone's had at least one serving of the food and three drinks, and Draco's nowhere to be seen. Harry does his best to not be disappointed, but as he refills his glass, there's a weight in his gut that he can't shift, one that feels like dissatisfaction.

"Potter."

He jumps, his drink spilling over his hand and onto the white tablecloth. "Shit. Fuck, Malfoy."

When he turns around, Malfoy's eyebrow is raised as he takes in the mess that Harry's shaking from his skin. "And hello to you, too. Would you like some assistance with that?" Malfoy reaches for his wand, but Harry waves him off, flushed with embarrassment and drink.

"I've got it." He goes to set his glass down, realizes it's just going to make more of a mess, and casts a wandless _Scourgify_ that leaves the table cloth clean and empties his glass at the same time. He sighs, then refills the glass again.

Harry can sense Draco behind him like the heat of the fading summer day. When he moves to stand by Harry's elbow, his lithe body close enough that Harry can feel the warmth of it directly, Harry takes a hasty sip and steps away, heart racing.

If Draco notices, he doesn't say anything. Instead, he takes a glass from the table and fills it with the ladle, the Pimm's flowing into his glass with ease and precision, bits of cucumber and strawberry falling with the ice until the drink reaches the rim. Harry shouldn't be so fascinated by the way that Draco's fingers wrap around the cool glass, the way his wrist bends as he puts the ladle back in the punch bowl, the trail of his fingers as they leave the handle and move to slide into his trouser's pocket.

"How are you, Potter?" Draco takes a sip, looking over the rim of his glass as Harry tries to remember how, exactly, he is.

Other than miserably turned on.

"Fine," he says instead. "I brought cake."

Draco's eyes light up, though his expression is relatively unchanged. "Really. What kind?"

"Chocolate and salted caramel, and lemon blueberry." He feels like an idiot, but he can't stop talking. "They're outside. I think there's still a few pieces left."

"Any recommendations on which I should try?"

Harry suddenly doesn't know. He has no idea what Malfoy likes in terms of sweets, doesn't know if he's a fan of heavy and rich or light and airy. His mouth opens to answer, though one doesn't come out. His mouth gapes for a moment before he's saved by Luna breezing into the room.

"Draco!" She wraps her arms around Draco's abdomen from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. "Doesn't Harry look lovely?"

Traitor.

Draco flushes, but he smiles as he looks towards his cousin. "Yes, he does."

"I thought he'd look more handsome with his hair up."

"The flowers are a nice touch." Draco looks back at Harry and gives him a slow perusal, grey eyes trailing from the top of his head, down, and then back up again. "Very lovely indeed."

Harry swallows, mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara. "I'm going… just… I'll be…" He takes a step away from Luna's too-knowing gaze, and Draco's joyous, ever-present smirk, and his back hits the door. He scrambles for the knob, twists it, and falls into the backyard as gracefully as he can, spilling Pimm's all over his hand again.

Eventually wandering his way back to the table where Ron and Hermione are gazing at each other—it's honestly sickening how in love they are, even after all this time; Harry's not jealous at all—Harry downs his Pimm's, lets it warm his belly and cool his throat, and he stares at the picnic table laden with half-empty plates, wondering which cake Draco will eventually try.

* * *

He should not have had as many glasses of Pimm's as he has. Ron and Hermione snuck away at some point, but Harry's too blurry to remember when. They'd told him they'd be right back, he remembers, but that could've been five minutes ago or fifty. His glass is empty. He'd stopped after his sixth glass, and honestly, he should've paced himself better since Luna and Ginny made it. They've always had heavy hands, and now, he's drunk and regretting it.

But the night is cool, and the sky is clear. Stars wink overhead, and Harry thinks about counting them, gets to twenty, forgets which ones he started with, and tries again. Maybe lifting his head from the table to do it would help, but instead, he rolls his head to the side and looks out across the open lawn and into the dark night.

Draco falls into the seat across from Harry. "You look trolleyed." He sets two plates on the table, then leans forward, blocking the stars with his eyes. "How much have you had to drink, Potter?"

"Enough." Harry looks at the plates, then startles and sits up. "There's cake left?"

"And I brought you some." Draco holds up a fork. "I'm feeling kind today."

Harry shakes his head. "I don't need cake. You have to tell me which you like."

With the fervency of the very inebriated, Harry desperately wants to know which flavor profile Draco prefers. His mind starts racing through his recipes, wondering what else he can make for the man, how he can woo him with delicate patisserie and hearty dinners, shower him with French delicacies and breakfast in bed, complete with freshly squeezed orange juice and a single, long stemmed rose.

Draco reaches for the chocolate cake first, and Harry breathes out, long and slow, as Draco presses the side of his fork into the top of the cake and presses down. It deforms slightly, dipping under the pressure, then the metal tines slide through the soft sponge with delicate ease. The salted caramel buttercream drags after, coating the fork and holding the crumbs together as Draco brings it to his mouth and takes a refined, elegant bite.

"Ohl," he says, eyes wide and mouth still full. "Merlin, Potter. That's amazing."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Draco takes another bite and moans around it.

Harry does his best to surreptitiously shift on the bench, his trousers uncomfortably tight all of a sudden, as he watches Draco enjoy his bite. His eyes are closed, mouth curled into a small smile as he chews, the fork held limply in his hand. There's just a bit of buttercream clinging to the corner of his mouth, and Harry is overcome with the sudden desire to clean it away with his tongue.

"Try the other." His voice is rough.

Grey eyes open, glinting in the soft glow of fairy lights hanging in the garden. "That's the better one, then."

"Might be."

Draco's eyebrow raises and his smile turns from quiet contentment to a challenging thing that makes Harry shift again. "If you say so, Potter."

His fork cuts through the lemon blueberry as easily as the chocolate, but the journey from the plate to his mouth is slow and calculated. Harry licks his lips, and Malfoy smirks before opening his mouth and gliding the fork past his lips as they close around sponge, cream, and fruit. He draws it out slowly, the tines clean and his eyes glued to Harry's.

Harry can't think. His mind is clouded with alcohol and lust, and all he can manage is to wonder what Malfoy's mouth might taste like right now, how the flavours of the cakes would blend with whatever special spice Malfoy carries on his tongue and behind his teeth.

"Very nice." Draco's voice is dark and smooth, and it sends shivers through Harry's body. "Different, but no less delicious."

"Which do you prefer?" Harry has to know. It's a sudden, fiery obsession, one that claws at his throat and chest and has him panting.

"I'm not interested in cake, Potter." The fork travels to the chocolate cake, takes another careful cut. Draco raises it to Harry's mouth, eyes calculating and dark. "Your turn."

Harry's mouth falls open almost against his will, and then Draco's pressing the bite into his mouth, tilting the fork up so that Harry's mouth closes around it. His tongue presses against the underside of the utensil, and as Draco pulls it free, it drags against Harry's lips.

It shouldn't be as erotic as it is, Draco pressing a bite of chocolate into his mouth and drawing back, but Harry's heart is pounding, his dick is throbbing in his trousers, and he can't taste anything, overwhelmed.

Draco cuts into the lemon blueberry and offers it wordlessly. Harry swallows, then opens his mouth again, and the grin that Draco gives him is nearly feral.

He feeds Harry another bite. "Lovely indeed."

Harry swallows, the light cake thick and heavy in his throat.

"Malfoy," he says, and Draco shakes his head.

"Draco." He brings the fork to his own mouth and rests the metal tines against his bottom lip. "You call me Draco."

"Fuck. Draco."

"What are you doing after this?"

Harry stops himself from saying _furiously_ wanking. "No idea."

"I think you've maybe had a bit much to drink, and we should get you home. And since I don't see Weasley or Granger anywhere nearby, I am graciously offering to take you."

"You want to take me home."

There's no way this is happening. He's drunk off too much Pimm's, he's fallen asleep in Luna and Ginny's backyard, and he's having a sex dream about Draco Malfoy and cake. He's going to wake up in the grass with uncomfortably sticky pants, a hangover, and absolutely no dignity.

"Unless you'd rather sleep here?"

Oh, god. He's not dreaming. Draco is never snarky in his dreams, just naked and desperately compliant.

"No. No, I'd like you to take me… to help me home."

"Good." He keeps his eyes locked with Harry's, then slides the fork into his mouth one last time, licking the memory of Harry's mouth from its tines. It clinks against the plate before Draco stands, comes around the table, and holds out his hand.

Harry's fingers are shaking when he clasps Draco's palm, and then he's pulled with bruising efficiency from the bench. He gets to his feet easily, his legs working even if his brain isn't, but though he's standing solidly, Draco keeps pulling until their chests are touching, their clenched hands trapped between them. 

That damned buttercream is still clinging to the corner of Draco's mouth, and Harry can't stop himself from wiping it clean with his thumb. He draws the digit to his mouth, unthinking, and licks it clean. Draco breathes in sharply through his teeth.

"You're a disaster when you're soused, Potter." His eyes are trained on the thumb still in Harry's mouth. "We need to get you home before you hurt someone."

Harry drags his teeth over the pad of his thumb as he draws it out of his mouth, enjoying the brief clarity the sting brings with it. "We should say goodbye."

"Later."

It doesn't make sense, and Harry doesn't care because Draco's taking Harry's other hand in his, and then there's the feeling of a fish hook under his navel, and they've Apparated into Harry's kitchen.

"How'd you know where I live?" are the first words from his mouth, followed quickly by, "Oh, fuck," because Draco's pressed against Harry's body, his thigh cradled between Harry's legs, and he's pressing insistently against the bulge of Harry's cock.

Draco leans in, his breath tickling against Harry's ear. "You've got one chance to tell me you don't want this, that I've misread things. I don't take unwilling partners, and while you certainly seem willing, I want to hear it."

"Yes." He grabs at Draco's hips, desperate for balance of some kind. "Please."

"Good." Draco presses his thigh into Harry's cock again, then shoves him away. Awkward and caught off guard, Harry falls into a kitchen chair, bumping against the table and sending the dishes there clattering against the tabletop. Part of him wonders if the stasis charm will hold, while the rest is locked onto Draco's face and the heated way he looks at Harry. "Sit. You need to sober up."

What Harry needs is Draco's hands on him again, but he sprawls in the chair instead, his legs spread wide as Draco rummages around in his cupboards until he finds a glass. Harry expects him to cast an _Aguamenti_ , but Draco fills it from the tap, then stands in front of Harry, glass in hand.

"Tilt your head back," he commands. Harry feels the words like a caress, and he does as he's told, letting his neck stretch, long and lean, as Draco steps into the vee of Harry's legs. Carefully, Draco brings the glass to Harry's mouth. "Drink."

Lips parting, Harry lets Draco pour the cool water into his mouth. It spills a little, splashing out the sides of his mouth, but he doesn't notice the cold wetness on his chest. He's burning up under Draco's gaze. He swallows, slow and easy, and Draco pulls the glass away before setting it on the table behind Harry.

Draco steps over Harry's spread legs so that he's towering over Harry, Draco's crotch tauntingly close to Harry's face. Harry carefully raises his hands to grab at Draco's hips, pulling him a step closer.

"You should eat something," Draco murmurs. He leans forward, his chest nearly brushing Harry's mouth as he reaches for something on the table. He comes back with a bowl full of blueberries, the fruit plump and ripe. Harry doesn't need to hear the command, can read it in Draco's expression, and he wordlessly opens his mouth and feels his cock jump when Draco smiles, clearly pleased with his compliance.

Draco sorts through the berries, carefully selecting one before placing it in the parted gap of Harry's lips. He presses his thumb against the fruit, forcing it gently into Harry's mouth. It's ripe and sweet, and when Harry bites into it, it explodes with juice over his tongue. As he chews, Draco picks another berry from the bowl and readies it between his fingers. He feeds Harry for a long, quiet moment, the berries filling Harry's mouth with sweetness and Draco's fingers against his lips filling him with desire. When Draco readies the next berry, though, he purposefully crushes it between his fingers, the purple juice and white flesh clinging to his skin.

"What a mess," he says quietly. With precision, he places his stained fingers and the damaged fruit against Harry's lips, then drags them down the side of his mouth and around the point of his chin. "Do try to be better about this, Potter."

Harry wants to protest, but Draco's tilting Harry's head back again and pressing his lips to the stained skin. Draco's tongue is hot and shocking as he licks the fruit away. He doesn't kiss Harry, not yet, but he breathes against Harry's lips before pulling away and finding another berry.

Harry can't decide if he wants Draco to offer him another bite of fruit or if he wants to pull Draco's hips closer and put his mouth to better use. As he fights with himself, though, Draco must sense his indecision because he leans forward, again too close to Harry's face, and pushes the blueberries away.

"Something sweeter, perhaps," he says against the shell of Harry's ear. Harry shivers but nods.

"Please."

"So polite." Another bowl scrapes against the table. "I'd never have guessed."

"I can be well-behaved."

"As you're proving very aptly tonight. Take off your shirt."

Harry's hands fumble for the hem of his shirt, but he takes it off in one graceful motion before throwing it somewhere past Draco. He doesn't see where it lands because his field of view is immediately taken up by Draco, who has both of his arms over Harry's shoulders, leaning on the table behind him. His grey eyes skim over Harry's exposed chest, and his smile is predatory. Hungry.

"Very nice." Draco's weight shifts to his left, his right arm lifting from the table. His forefinger has a generous dollop of buttercream icing on it when he draws it back to Harry's line of sight. "What a shame you've made such a mess."

"What?"

But then Draco's dragging the icing across the ridge of Harry's collarbone, and Harry sucks in a breath at the cold touch. Draco smears it into the hollow of Harry's throat, then reaches back and, when his hand comes back into view, his fingers are coated in more buttercream.

"I don't know how you managed to get it everywhere," he says idly before trailing his coated fingers across Harry's pectoral. He spends extra time on Harry's nipple, circling it until it puckers, hard and pointed beneath the thin layer of icing. When his fingers dip lower, moving across the hard plane of Harry's stomach, it's everything Harry can do to not press his hips up, desperate for more. More of Draco's hands on his body, more of the smooth slide of buttercream against his skin.

Draco pulls his hand away, clucks his tongue, and then slides two of his fingers into his mouth. His eyes close as he sucks the icing from them, moaning around the digits. When he pulls them free, they glisten with his spit, and he licks his lips. "Let's clean you up, Potter."

His eyes flash like molten silver, and then Draco leans forward, hands on the seat of Harry's chair for support, and he breathes against Harry's collarbone. Harry fights for composure, fights for understanding, but when Draco's tongue darts out, licking icing from Harry's skin, all he can do is fight to not curse at the touch. Lips trail over his body, Draco's tongue a darting flash of wet heat where it meets Harry's skin, and Harry scrabbles for Draco's hands on the seat, wrapping his fingers over the top of and around Draco's, holding him in place. Draco laughs against Harry's skin.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says before licking another stripe across Harry's collarbone. "I clean up after myself."

"Why is that so fucking hot?" Harry groans, confused and desperate. "Please, stop talking."

"Fuck off, Potter."

But Draco puts his mouth back on Harry's skin anyway. He spends long moments cleaning the buttercream from Harry's throat, laves his tongue over Harry's nipple before sneaking stinging nips that have Harry's hips jerking off the seat. Draco laughs at the abrupt motion, draws his mouth away, and then sinks to his knees.

"Oh, fuck." Harry tightens his hands.

Draco's grin is a wonderful, terrifying thing. "I'm going to need those."

Harry lets go like he's been burned.

Laughing, Draco reaches for Harry's waistband. He undoes the belt and the button, then lowers the fly. Harry, meanwhile, is desperately trying to remember anything of arithmancy, a subject he only ever heard about from Hermione, as a way to stop himself from coming at the sight of Draco Malfoy, kneeling between Harry's knees, Draco's face smeared with saliva and buttercream.

It seems to be working, the frenetic beat of Harry's heart slowing and the growing tightness in the pit of his stomach easing. But then Draco exhales against the obvious bulge of Harry's cock in his pants and presses an open mouthed kiss against it, and all of Harry's progress disappears as if by magic.

Draco must have a sixth sense for Harry's arousal because he laughs again, then pulls Harry's cock out from the slit of his pants. Harry likes to think he has a nice cock. It's not too thick, not too long, but it's a solid handful, and when he wraps his fingers around its girth, his middle finger overlaps his thumb only a little. The way that Draco looks at it has Harry reconsidering, though. Draco looks at Harry's prick like it's a stack of Galleons, like it's something valuable, something to be desired and possessed. His mouth falls open, lips red and sugar coated, and he swallows heavily.

Harry wants to say something, but his brain isn't working. Honestly, a bit of him _is_ convinced that he's actually passed out in Ginny and Luna's lawn, rather than in his kitchen with his trousers open and Draco about to suck his cock. When Draco presses a soft, teasing kiss to the head, though, Harry's eyes roll back into his head and his hands clench on the seat, reality a vibrant, wonderful thing.

Draco's breath is so warm, and he takes Harry's cock into his mouth with hardly a pause, just the smooth glide of lips against skin and Draco's tongue pushing up against the heavy weight of Harry's flesh. He sucks gently, just enough to have Harry, who is already close enough as it is, desperately trying to not come. Draco's fingers circle the base of Harry's cock, helping to guide it into his mouth and stopping Harry from coming with the slightly too-tight clench. His other hand sneaks into Harry's pants and tugs gently at Harry's balls. Draco's mouth and hands work in concert, finding a slow, easy tempo that has Harry cursing and crying out, eyes locked on the sight of Draco's white-blond hair and the open O of his mouth around Harry's cock.

"Oh fuck," he moans. He takes a shaking hand from the seat of the chair and rests it on the back of Draco's head. Draco moans at the touch, and Harry tightens his fingers in Draco's hair, thrusting up without thought. "Oh, fuck, sorry."

Draco pulls off, his hand still stroking over Harry's length. "Fuck my mouth, Potter."

"Oh God." His left hand comes off the seat and joins the right, both of them tangled and clenched in Draco's hair. With only the slightest bit of pressure, he moves Draco's head back to his cock, waits to feel the warmth and wetness of it settle around the head of his prick before he thrusts in. Draco moans again, and Harry arches off of the chair until he feels Draco's throat closing around the head of his cock. "Oh, fuck, Draco."

Draco moans again. Harry slowly fucks his cock into Draco's mouth, directing Draco's head with his hands until they've got a rhythm that has both of them breathing heavily, Harry through his mouth and Draco through his nose. Now that he's setting the pace, Harry's orgasm is fast approaching, bubbling up hot and heavy in his stomach. He grits his teeth, thrusts harder.

"Gonna come," he manages on a shaky exhale. He loosens his grip so Draco can pull away if he wants, but when he glares up at Harry, grey eyes flashing, Harry tangles his fingers through Draco's hair again and pulls him closer.

When the orgasm hits Harry, his vision goes grey around the edges. He's pretty sure he shouts something when he comes, but he doesn't know if it's a curse or Draco's name or God's. Either way, his mouth is open wide, his fingers tight in Draco's hair, his hips raised from the chair. He falls back, boneless, and lets his touch gentle in Draco's hair, the too-tight grip turning into a caress as his cock jerks in Draco's mouth, overstimulated and perfect.

Eyes half-lidded, body lax with pleasure and release, Harry lets his hands fall from Draco's hair, lets his head tilt back as he watches Draco pull away to wipe at the corners of his mouth. The motion is somehow refined, even though he's cleaning bits of Harry's semen and buttercream from his lips. He rises to his feet. Harry's eyes are drawn to the straining crotch of Draco's trousers. His cock is a clear line through them, and Harry's mouth goes dry at the sight.

"Merlin," he breathes, his hands rising to reach for Draco. Harry's confident, all of his nerves lost to afterglow, and he opens Draco's fly with steady fingers. When he runs the back of them over the rise of Draco's cock, Draco's jaw clenches.

"May I?" Harry asks, waiting for permission.

Draco grins, then runs his fingers through Harry's hair, knocking loose the flowers and ivy and tilting his head back to bare his neck. "Maybe." He squeezes, pulling Harry's hair and making Harry's eyes water. "I'm not done making a mess of you."

Harry moves his hands to Draco's hips, waiting, expectant, and it seems to please Draco, who's fingers caress the side of Harry's face, cupping his jaw gently. He shivers when Draco pulls his hand away, then shivers again as it reaches for Draco's cock. He pulls himself from his trousers and pants, fists it slowly, carefully, eyes locked on Harry's.

"Open your mouth." He grunts when Harry does. "Wider."

It's suddenly too warm in the kitchen. Harry's spent cock gives a hopeful twitch as he widens his mouth, letting his tongue hang out slightly past his bottom lip. Draco presses the tip of his cock against it, hissing with pleasure-pain as he leaves a trail of bitter precome on Harry's tongue.

"Lovely."

He jerks himself slowly at first, but whatever care he had been taking is tossed out the window after Harry pulls him closer. Cursing quietly, his hand twists around the head, smearing come across it, watching Harry as Draco draws closer and closer to orgasm.

Draco doesn't say anything when he comes, just angles his cock so that jets of semens fall onto Harry's neck and chest, pool in Harry's navel, spatter across the open front of his trousers. Draco's hips shake and jerk beneath Harry's palms, and Draco finally curses when Harry takes the head of Draco's cock into his mouth, stealing a final taste of come from his skin.

As Draco pants above him, Harry pulls his hand away and runs it through the mess on his body. The come mixes with the traces of buttercream still there, and when Harry brings his fingers to his mouth to taste, it's bitter-sweet and clings to his palette. Draco hisses again.

"Fucking hell, Potter." His posture is loose and relaxed, his hand still wrapped around his softening prick.

Harry takes another taste, smile turning predatory. "You call me Harry," he says, and Draco shivers.

"Harry."

"Next time, I'll make ice cream."

Draco laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from an Edward Young quote: **The future seems to me no unified dream but a mince pie, long in the baking, never quite done.**
> 
> Thank you to my lovely beta's, B and L. You're both amazing, and I don't know what I'd do without you.
> 
> For those of you interested in the cakes that Harry brings to the party, here are links to the recipes!
> 
> [Chocolate salted-caramel cake](https://danbeasleyharling.com/cake/chocolate-and-salted-caramel-cake/)
> 
> [ Lemon blueberry cake](https://biancazapatka.com/en/lemon-blueberry-cake/)
> 
> * * *
> 
> 💋 This work is part of the Taste of Smut Fest, a Harry Potter-centered fest dedicated to the five senses: taste, touch, smell, hearing, and sight. 
> 
> If you’ve enjoyed this work, please do shower our content creators with kudos and comments! 💌
> 
> [Please check out the fest's tumblr for more posts and updates](https://tasteofsmut.tumblr.com/)


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